


Playing the Grown-Up

by china_shop



Category: White Collar
Genre: Community: fan_flashworks, Episode Related, F/M, Fic, M/M, Multi, Pre-Threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-11
Updated: 2012-05-11
Packaged: 2017-11-05 03:53:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/402161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after 3.13 Neighborhood Watch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Playing the Grown-Up

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the fan_flashworks Communication challenge. Partly inspired by Ivorysilk's [thoughts here](http://china-shop.livejournal.com/767198.html?thread=13399262). Many thanks to Mergatrude for beta.

The sun was beating down on the commotion. Under the voices and vehicle noises, Neal heard the reassuring snick of handcuffs being secured around the Ryans' wrists and wondered when exactly the sound of restraints had become a good sound, when the Us and Them had gotten so thoroughly turned around. Maybe it was just the relief of knowing that Elizabeth and Moz were okay, despite the reckless stunt they'd just pulled.

Neal waited for Peter to snap, but instead he told El she had spousal immunity and kissed her extravagantly, seeming nothing but relieved. Spousal immunity for charging into a dangerous situation, unarmed and untrained? Neal walked away before he yelled at one or other of them. Yelling was Peter's job.

 

*

 

That evening, he stepped out onto the Burkes' patio where Peter and Elizabeth were drinking wine and talking in quiet voices. The sunset was starting to fade, and the light from the kitchen window glowed cozily over the scene. Peter said something, Elizabeth laughed. Satchmo was sprawled at her feet. Neal paused to drink in the tableau.

"Neal." El looked up, surprised but clearly pleased to see him. She was wearing one of Peter's old sweatshirts, and the cuffs covered her hands even with the sleeves scrunched up. Her hair was tied up in a messy ponytail. She looked comfortable and gorgeous and perfectly safe.

"I let myself in," said Neal. "Is it over?"

Peter raised his eyebrows, mild and amused by his presence. "Is what over?" 

"The shouting."

The Burkes looked blank. 

"Reckless behavior," prompted Neal. "Chasing after violent bad guys wielding automatic weapons, cornering them without backup—"

"Oh sweetie—" El was smirking, wholly unrepentant and probably still high on success. Neal overrode her.

"No, Elizabeth, it's not funny." His voice rose, despite himself, making Satchmo raise his head and prick his ears forward in concern. Neal began pacing the confines of the patio and continued to list the stupid risks El had taken. The Ryans had been a fun diversion when they were just neighbors and suspected thieves, but the moment Ben had threatened El— Neal's jaw tightened. If it weren't for the anklet, he'd set up twenty-four hour protective detail on Peter and Elizabeth, both of them. They were trouble magnets—they'd proven that time and again—and Keller might be behind bars, but he'd had Peter kidnapped from prison before. He had reach.

And as if that weren't bad enough, having escaped from her kidnappers on her own, El was now apparently seeking out dangerous situations, blithely sauntering into the line of fire. "I'm not telling you to live in fear," said Neal. "Just exercise a little commonsense and stay clear of armed criminals." Peter snorted, but Neal ignored him. Someone had to say it. "It's not that much to ask, if not for your own sake, then for Peter's. For mine."

"Yours." Elizabeth didn't looked entertained now so much as softly curious. Her gaze was fixed on him.

"Yes," answered Neal, too worked up to be careful. "Mine."

A fleeting shadow crossed her face that he couldn't begin to interpret, wistfulness perhaps, or expectation. She and Peter exchanged glances, and Neal's words caught up with him. He stopped short, perilously exposed, arranged his face into a stern mask and cast around for a safe cover. "You dragged Mozzie right into the thick of that mess today. And sure, you got lucky this time, but—"

Peter interrupted him. "Neal."

Neal's mouth snapped shut, obedient of its own accord.

"Neal, sit down," said Peter. He stood up and pushed Neal gently into his own vacated chair, still warm, right next to Elizabeth's. So close their knees brushed. Neal felt stupid, thrown. 

"I just think you need to think things through before you—"

And then El took his hand and the words dried up, thoughts evaporated. Neal knew he should pull free, but he didn't have the will to let her go. Her hand was small and warm, sure in his. A capable hand, alive. Neal closed his eyes. He was making a fool of himself, but all his strategies and clever tricks had deserted him. 

"I'll get another glass," said Peter, and his footsteps retreated. 

"I'm all right," said Elizabeth, and to Neal, with his eyes shut, it was like the night speaking to him, everything he wanted. "I'm fine."

"I know," he managed, embarrassed beyond belief. "Sorry. I shouldn't have." Shouldn't have said anything. Shouldn't be here. Definitely shouldn't be feeling this sad swell of longing.

"Shhhh. It's okay."

Peter came back and pulled up a chair on El's other side, and Neal forced his eyes open, bracing himself for pity or anger, finding instead warmth on both of their faces.

"When did you become the voice of caution, anyway?" asked Peter, in a rumble of fond amusement.

Neal swallowed and glanced down at his and El's hands, clasped. He should take advantage of Peter's opening and make light. He couldn't. "I worry."

"Okay." Peter really did sound okay about it, even pleased. But then, he could afford to be generous—he had Elizabeth, they had each other. Neal's feelings for El would never change that, they weren't any kind of threat. They just were, once secret, now easily disregarded. Bitterness squeezed Neal's heart. He was irrelevant.

El squeezed his hand, and when he looked over and met her gaze, he knew she could see everything he'd successfully kept hidden for years now, or thought he had.

"Now you know how I feel," she said, sending a mess of confusion through his chest. The corner of her mouth turned up. "Every time you boys go into battle, I worry."

She took her hand away, leaving him too aware of its loss, and she was only including him to be polite. Neal was friends with the Burkes, good friends, thick as thieves, but he wasn't so delusional to think they cared like he cared, or wanted anything like he wanted. For a split second, he hated them for it. Then he decided they'd probably known all along, and resentment turned back to resignation. In the absence of other possibilities, even their friendship was one of the most precious pieces of Neal's life.

"We both worry. Neal knows that, don't you, Neal?" said Pete, soothingly. 

"Of course." Neal accepted the glass Peter held out and, after a brief, awkward pause, Elizabeth's change of subject.

"Have you thought what your plans might be if your sentence is commuted?" she asked.

"Not really," said Neal. He sipped at his wine. "I was talking to Moz about it, and he said we could—" He trailed off. El was disappointed and doing a bad job of hiding it, and Peter's face had gone blank, neutral in the way that meant he was hiding something big. "What?"

"What did Mozzie say?" Peter prompted, but Neal was finally assembling the pieces of the evening, arranging them into a picture that made some kind of sense. It took his breath away. _El had held his hand._

What if her query about the commutation hadn't been a change of subject at all? What if the Burkes were waiting for freedom too, not from the anklet itself but from the restrictions the anklet placed on them? They _worried_ about him—and Peter had said that, knowing what Neal meant by it. 

Neal put down his wineglass feeling suddenly unsteady. "I'm not going anywhere," he said, "whatever happens with the commutation. Whatever Moz says."

"You don't know that yet," said Peter, his voice deep and quiet. "Wait till the anklet comes off and then see how you feel." 

Neal looked from him to Elizabeth. "What if I don't want to wait?"

"A lot of opportunities are going to open up for you, Neal." El smiled, but the wistfulness was there too, under it all. "You shouldn't limit yourself now to what's right in front of you, when the whole world could be yours in a few months' time."

"I've seen the world before." Nothing in the museums of America or Europe, Africa or Asia could hold a candle to what was right here in this yard: Elizabeth and Peter Burke—even Satchmo, who was snoozing comfortably again, now the shouting had stopped. Neal had been in love with Elizabeth for years, and with Peter too—though that was more complicated, twisted up with Peter's authority over him, their working relationship, and the ebb and flow of trust. He'd assumed it was hopeless, accepted that it was—even convinced himself it should be. The Burkes were better off without him. He was too high risk.

And now, in the space of a few minutes, doubt had entered. Hope, where there'd been none. Desire, an active force, proving just how flimsy those rationalizations had been. If he tried, maybe he could talk his way into their bed now. Insinuate himself into their marriage before they had time to change their minds. He knew what he wanted. 

But they were saying to wait, and Neal could see the reasoning, especially for Peter, who shouldn't be put in a compromising position or forced to lie to Diana and Jones and Hughes. Even if they waited, a queer relationship—a true _ménage à trois_ —would strain Peter's respectability. If Neal was serious about them, if he wanted it to last, perhaps it had to start honorably. Peter and El deserved that.

"I want you to know that there's always a place for you here," said Peter. "Whatever you decide."

"Thank you. That means a lot." Neal stood up. If he stayed, he was going to try and seduce them; he could feel the recklessness climbing his spine, tingling in his fingertips and silvering his tongue. He had to be alone to get his head together, to integrate hope into his life—hope and the possibility of love. "I should go."

El looked up at him, an unspoken question on her face, and he summoned a smile. 

"The commutation hearing's not far off." It was as close as he could come to an outright declaration, and El's answer was radiant and optimistic.

"I'll bake you a cake."

None of them raised the possibility the hearing might not go Neal's way. It had to now. It had to.

"Just stay out of trouble," said Neal. "That would be worth a dozen cakes. Stay out of trouble or no more lock-picking lessons." He moved around the table and stood at Peter's side, gave Peter's shoulder a quick squeeze through its cotton sweater. His throat was thick with emotion. "I'll see you tomorrow, Mario."

"See you, Sundance," said Peter, his voice that subterranean rumble that Neal always felt low in his gut, and Neal hesitated, torn and tempted once more. 

But no. His instruction to Mozzie all those months ago echoed in his mind: _we take our time, we do it right._ The strategy might not have led to success with the U-boat treasure, but they were still words to live by. Neal refrained from patting Satchmo farewell; he was just lingering for the sake of lingering now, giving his conscience time to waver. He stuck his hands in his pockets, nodded to Peter and El, and left. 

Elizabeth was okay, that was what mattered. As for the rest of it, Neal had time to plan, to woo the Burkes subtly, without crossing any lines or compromising anyone. His footsteps quickened with enthusiasm. It would be a challenge, a game with rich rewards. His mind was already teeming with ideas.


End file.
